


The Perks and Drawbacks of Loving a Tea-Shop Owner

by sherlockandtea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD John, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4173471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockandtea/pseuds/sherlockandtea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock has fully dismantled Moriarty's network; he meets John Watson. The hope of seeing something new with the added promise of tea is too alluring to Sherlock to dismiss after a particularly long day, and John, who is almost as homely as his tea-shop, is the reason he can never fully leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is not only my first Johnlock fanfiction, but my first fanfiction in general, so you could call me some sort of fanfic-virgin in that respect. I've been dying to write one for a while, so I decided, why not? Any feedback would be lovely, and feel free to correct me on anything. -S x

Darkness interspersed with blue-white light, flashing - no - sweeping, as if searching for something. Running, the metallic taste of blood heavy on his tongue, blood? Why blood? Fear coursing through his veins, a shot, trees whipping past him as if they're the ones moving. Knees weak, falling, suspended, spent, cornered.

Sherlock wakes, gasping for breath as though the event wasn't just a memory, drenched in sweat and trembling, eyes closed, the imaginary sensory overload too much to bare on top of his already heightened senses. His heavy breathing gradually calming down, he slowly opens his eyes. Nothing. No Russian dialect being spat angrily in his face, no pain shooting it's way up his spine, just a bed in Mycroft's one of many spare rooms in his small fortune of a mansion. He collapses forward onto the soft sheets, such a novelty when you've spent the better part of two years running for your life, and a strange calm comes over him. It's done.

~

His brother is waiting for him in his (far too elaborate for work purposes, as he has taunted him on many occasions) office, high ceilings and rich mahogany paneling dwarfing the usually imposing man in a way that made Sherlock's stomach twist in discomfort. "You sent one of your minions looking for me, do tell me what you want, and preferably do so with haste." Sherlock says, practically spitting out the last words while glaring narrow-eyed at his sibling. With an expression practically laden with saccharine, "Dear brother, while I'd love to send you off on some sort of 'case' as you like to call them, you are needed elsewhere. I need you to," Mycroft pauses for a look of obvious distaste to wash over his features, "do some surveillance on a few acquaintances that have been getting rather," He turns his lips up slightly, "rowdy, of late. They need a watchful eye being kept on them, and I know you love that 'legwork'." Sherlock scoffs, "Oh shut u-." Waving his hand in dismissal, the elder Holmes brother cuts him off. "I know how you need funding for your various endeavors, and it would be tedious to get the trust privileges revoked. You know how I hate the playing the financial card, brother dear." Sherlock huffs and turns to walk out, just as Anthea hurries in, draping his coat over his shoulders. Excellent, his London attire is complete. Oh, how he has hated not having the flutter of the greatcoat at his heels.

As Sherlock settles himself into reading the paper, eyes peeking over the top to provide just enough cover as to not be noticed, yet the perfect amount to keep his eyes firmly fixed on the 'rowdy acquaintance' as his sibling had so eloquently put it. He internally rolls his eyes, how could this man, named Victor Trevor, as the text from Anthea (that can't possibly be her real name, he needs more data) had stated, be so horrendously boring. He thought there would at least be a good serial killer by the time he re-claimed his city, but alas, the carefully balanced universe had not tipped it's scales in Sherlock Holmes' favour, (not that he believed in luck, "It's for idiots." He had screamed at a particularly imbecilic fortune-teller in the middle of a triple homicide case). Here, in the middle of a crowded coffee shop, he knew that a mass murderer would soon reveal himself, and the great Consulting Detective would carry on his life exactly how it was Before Moriarty. He doesn't know why the thought makes his shoulders droop almost unnoticeably, and it didn't occur to Sherlock that Moriarty was the closest thing to a friend he had ever had. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice Victor collecting his coffee (soy latte, double shot) in an alarmingly fast pace and sweep out onto the city streets in a flash. Sherlock drops his paper, chair screeching back as he shoots out of his chair, off to tail the tedious Mr Trevor.

After a particularly long morning of following Victor through back-alley streets, the younger Holmes feels as though he's on the verge of uncovering the unsavory acts of his aforementioned target, and, after the tedious criminal was finally in his flat, Sherlock was exhausted. Since his surveillance work had finally started becoming moderately interesting, he had submerged himself into the work, (Read: Not sleeping or ingesting anything other than the odd cup of tea from Mrs Hudson, bless her) just as he would have, if it were a well planned murder. It had been mildly stimulating, but all of the 'legwork' was taking a toll on him physically. As he half-walked, half-stumbled his way home, he found himself on a different route to usual, and blaming it on his tired state, he continued down the unfamiliar - or as unfamiliar as anything can be to Sherlock Holmes - road, past small bistros humming with polite conversation and business men and women with varied levels of stress tainting their features, desperately rushing home for their lunch breaks. He again finds himself doing something extremely uncharacteristic, wandering towards the small tea-shop, sandwiched between a travel agency and a men's boutique. Turning the (brass) handle quickly, he bursts through the door in a flurry, panting slightly, his legs not keeping up with the pace that his mind decided. He looks around for a moment; wallpaper: old, worn over time, yet still neat; counters and wood paneling across the ceiling: rich, dark, unlike the wood in his brothers office, this has a feeling of being lived in. There's a main counter taking up most of the back wall, the rest of the room taken up with mismatched tables and chairs, charming, warm, homely. The smell of lemon - no - bergamot with Ceylon tea, mixed with a subtle hint of vanilla and _home_. In the Holmes' haste to take everything in, he almost doesn't notice the man sat behind the counter, just his soft wispy hair and jumper-adorned shoulders peek over the wooden surface, his eyes downcast, he seems to be reading something - so enthralled in said something that he didn't realise someone had come in - interesting, he thinks, need more data. He strides forward, walking off the carpet and onto the strip wooden floors. The Jumper Man looks up, he looks startled, but it soon changes into a look of gentle intrigue as he stands from his chair, (with slight difficulty, yet soon rectifies his posture, military then). "Could I help you with anything?", He prompts, waiting for The Man with the Cheekbones to suggest why his eyes were frantically darting across the room, and fixing rather steadfastly on John. "Oh, yes, please.", Sherlock says in his usual disinterested manner, and lowers himself into a chair closest to the counter, "You sell tea, yes?", He asks rather expectantly. "Well, yes. This does happen to be a tea shop." The Jumper Man fights to keep the smile off of his face, his amusement clearly showing by the glint in his eyes. "Surprise me", Sherlock says, the warmth from the shop and the humor of the man standing in front of him causing him to smile, just the slight turn-up of his lips, and it dawns on him that this is the first time he has smiled since Serbia.


	2. A Study in Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock meet again, and after a few short conversations, John finds a bleeding and distraught Sherlock on his couch, and proceeds to take care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm rather terrible with summaries, but basically there is a large amount of angst and comfort on John's part. If you were wondering, Sherlock is living with Mrs Hudson in her flat on Montague street, while John lives in 221B Baker Street, his tea shop being 221A. I know it's a slight mess (my apologies) but I have too many ideas and not enough hypothetical venues - sigh. This chapter was more through the eyes of John, but from a third person/onlooker's perspective. I'll stop yammering on, I hope you enjoy it! -S xx

The Man with the Cheekbones, as John had so aptly named him, hurried in once again on a chilly afternoon, precisely ten days after their first meeting - not that John was counting.

He bursts through the door with his usual dramatic flair, not pausing as long as he had before to observe the room, and went straight to the same table he had before. This time, however, John was anticipating his arrival, as he had been all week (shooting up from his chair every time a customer had walked in, hoping that it would be the man with the wild hair and turned up coat collar) and smiled slightly at the sight of him.

When Sherlock's eyes caught sight of the man behind the counter, he relaxed slightly as he walked towards him.

"You're back then, are you?" John said with humor evident in his voice.

Sherlock looked at him inquisitively, "Well yes, of course I am. Isn't that obvious?" When the jumper-clad man's face fell slightly, Sherlock sighed and tilted his head back, "It's that 'sarcasm' thing again, isn't it?" he said mainly to himself.

John looked bewildered, "Well, yes. Could I get you anything?"

Sherlock's eyes shoot to his, "Who are you."

John looks around, startled at what the gorgeous man was asking him. "John, um, John Watson."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, as though searching for something that may give him a hint as to who the blue-eyed man is, "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

John's eyes widen almost comically, "I don't follow the news all that much, but aren't you the bloke that faked his own death?"

Sherlock sighs and reassumes his cold exterior, - why did it slip in the first place? He needs to be more careful - "Yes, the great man who jumped off the roof of St Bartholomew's, just to magically appear two years later." he says in his usual flat tone.

John frowns slightly, "That must've been quite traumatic, the two years away, I mean. Are you alright?" His interest gives way to something else, care? Worry? No, it can't be. Must be something else. People, especially strangers, don't 'care' unless they have something to gain.

"Yes, yes. Completely fine. Drop it." He glares at John, but without the malice that usually cuts through even the toughest of characters.

John, to Sherlock's surprise, smiles warmly and rests his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "It's fine." He says softly, "It's all fine." With that, he turns away to shuffle into the back room, anticipating Sherlock's indifference to what he orders, and warms his favourite loose Chamomile (known for its calming properties) in the dainty glass pot, leans against the counter, and wonders how a man like Sherlock Holmes could have been drawn to his humble tea-shop.

~

This pattern of short conversation and impromptu orders on John's part continues until the the fifth time the Consulting Detective (as John had found out through Sherlock's few sentences and rather extensive Googling) graces his shop. The fifth time, however, was late on a Tuesday evening, as John often stays open till around 8:00pm, not for the customers, just because turning the small sign on the door to 'Closed' makes him feel rather lonely, living on his own directly above the small shop, and all. So he leaves his shop open, just to try to coax any company to waltz through the door as to be a means to end the consumable boredom and _safe_  that John has to endure, still not fully acclimatized to civilian life after being deployed five years ago, still yearning for the unmistakeable rush of adrenalin that comes with the fear of being shot at or blown up. He shivers slightly, while he may miss the rush that the war gave him, he definitely didn't like the gruesome memories that came with it.

Just as John was about to pack away his teas from the window and flip the sign with a subtle sigh, Sherlock glides through the door in a frenzy, smacking into a startled John Watson, pushing him aside - surprisingly gently, he thinks - does a running leap over the counter, and runs through the door and up the narrow staircase into 221 B Baker Street, the Consulting Detective's heavy, quick footing creating a subtle _thud_  with each placement of his foot.

A throughly confused John Watson stands in the middle of his tea-shop, mouth hanging agape as his eyes dart from the door to the staircase where a particularly petrified looking Sherlock Holmes just bounded into his home. "Shit!" He curses to himself, regaining what's left of his composure, and hurrying up the stairs after the (mad) detective.

As he crests the top of the stairs, he sees a disheveled looking Sherlock bent over, one hand braced on his knee for support, panting heavily, while the other is applying pressure to what looks like a gash in the side of his head, wait, a _gash_? John automatically goes into Army Doctor Mode.

"Sherlock! What happened?" John removes the distance between himself and the detective, inspecting his head with surprisingly steady hands. "God, you're bleeding! You need to get to the hospital!"

Sherlock lifts his head with great effort, "No, no, NO, John!" He gets progressively louder and more distressed with each protest, until he's practically begging, "You can't make me, John! They'll do it again, they'll get me!"

John wraps his arm around Sherlock's waist, placing the man's arm on the doctor's shoulder for support, "Come on, just lie down on the sofa, yeah?" He helps the detective to lay down, trying to get him as comfortable as possible while still having his head elevated. "No hospitals, it's just a shallow cut, but I need to bandage you up. Is that alright?" John asks in the softest voice he can manage, worry coating every word.

Sherlock clutches to John's jumper, "You can't let them do it again." He whispers hoarsely, "Please, John."

John's heart aches for the younger man, usually so sure of himself, and places his hand on his back and rubs soothing circles to try to calm him down. "Shhh, it's alright, you're safe." John straightens, "I need to bandage you up, you've already lost too much blood."

Sherlock looks up at him through puffy, red eyes stained with tears and let's his jumper slide through his grasp, "I'm sorry." He lets his head fall forward, hitting the edge of the soft cushion.

"Don't worry, just you stay here while I go and get something for your head." John hurries off, anxious to get back to helping Sherlock. He rushes to the medicine cabinet to retrieve the first aid kit, stopping off in the kitchen to grab the bottle of paracetamol and a glass of water. As John dresses the detective's wound, he tries his best not to think of the people who could have done this to him. The eerie silence snaps John out of his thoughts, and turning his head to see if Sherlock was still awake (he worried about the possible concussion) he sees him staring intently up at John, seeming in awe of the sincere emotion distorting the doctors features as he carefully bandages him up. In the back of his mind, he knows that the first place that Sherlock had thought to come was to him, and the feeling that comes with that is the same as stitching a man with gaping bullet wounds in the middle of the Afghan desert, or the reason he decided to become a doctor in the first place - the feeling of being needed, useful. The one thing he had been yearning for, for five years had been granted to him through the medium of an intimidatingly graceful Consulting Detective, and while his heart aches for the poor man in front of him, he realizes that he needs Sherlock nearly as much as Sherlock needs him in this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to correct me on anything or tell me if the housing arrangements are getting slightly crazy. (I know they are, aaahh!) Any suggestions would be lovely, or any tips on how to make my writing/this fic better would be enormously appreciated. I am writing this as I go along, so if it seems disjointed sometimes, I should sort it out relatively soon. (I'm horrendous at this, gah.) The next chapter should be relatively similar to this, but in Sherlock's perspective. (It'll be the whole buildup to this chapter, and maybe the comforting.) Bare with me. -S xxx


End file.
